


Affiancing

by H3L



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:24:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3L/pseuds/H3L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em><strong>PROMPT-</strong>Totally AU-Brienne receives a proposal from someone else which she plans on accepting, thinking it’s the best offer she’ll ever get and Jaime can’t handle it. Brienne can’t figure out what’s wrong with him since he’s acting really strange and stand-offish until Jamie finally snaps and confesses his love to Brienne. Brienne thinks it’s just a bad jape, so Jaime sets out to court her and show her just how much she really means to him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This story will be updated twice weekly, on Mondays and Thursdays. I hope I did the prompt justice!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Letter

**Author's Note:**

> For my beta, _valyriansteel_ , who tirelessly works on Valonqar with me. Thank you so much! And a huge THANK YOU to _Snowfright_ for being taking time out of writing the amazing 'Battle of the Bands' to be my lovely beta for this work!

“You have a letter, my Lady.”

Brienne’s eyes flitted right to observe Podrick Payne. He was standing just inside the doorway of her chambers, nervously shifting from his right foot to his left. She was struck momentarily how a boy, who had seen so much, could still be nervous confronting her. She was a freakishly large woman, that was sure, and ugly, but he’d been her constant companion for some four years. She thought he would have grown more comfortable in her company. When it was clear he was finished speaking she gave the smallest nod she could in acknowledgment. Maester Linton was treating a wound on her right shoulder and had already shouted at her earlier for moving her head when Jaime had first come in, japing about their matching injuries. She didn’t want to upset the young Maester again. She almost told the boy to leave the message on her table, but Jaime piped up in the space left after the boy’s sentence. 

“Give it over then, lad,” Jaime said, grinning from Brienne’s side. He was sat beside her on the bed, his stump comfortably nestled out of sight between his thigh and hers. He held his good hand out to the messenger. Podrick stayed still in the doorway, anxiously looking back and forth between his Lady and his Lord. After the Long Night, Pod was knighted and as such was technically no longer in the service of Jaime, Brienne, _or_ Tyrion Lannister. However, seeing as the Dragon Queen had burned the entirety of King’s Landing, they had need of all the able bodied lads they could get and Tyrion had immediately enlisted Podrick in helping to rebuild the Red Keep. He was terribly loyal, Podrick, and still treated Brienne and Jaime as though he were just a squire. Tyrion too, as a matter of fact, which was why Pod was playing the part of glorified messenger for the Hand of the King instead of trying to find a bride or acquire land in the restructuring or the realm. Though, no doubt, he would be rewarded handsomely for his loyalty. _A Lannister always pays his debts._

Brienne smiled kindly, attempting to ease the boy. “Go on Pod, there is no harm in Ser Jaime reading it to me. I can’t move and it will give him something to do whilst Maester Linton finishes wrapping up my arm.” At her word Podrick stepped into the room fully and handed the letter to Jaime with a stunted bow. 

“How is your shoulder, ser,” he stopped and corrected himself immediately, “my lady?” The maester irritably tightened her bandage as he wrapped.

“Very well, thank you, Podrick. Maester Linton says there will be no lasting damage.”

“I thought it was high time the wench learned to fight with her left hand, for a change.” Jaime smirked at her side and Brienne could feel herself blushing at the old nickname. He’d stopped using it anywhere but the practice yard during their time at the Wall, yet lately he was calling her ‘wench’ more and more often. It delighted him to see her blush and it seemed to amuse Tyrion as well, even when he complained that Jaime was a bad influence on the King. The Maester looked pointedly at Pod and then swung his irritated gaze to Jaime, sitting beside her. 

“My Lady, please refrain from swordplay whilst your wound heals. The cut is shallow, but my stitches can easily be torn during a fight, regardless of which arm you use.” 

Jaime scowled from his vantage point, on Brienne’s left, at the young man fresh from the citadel. The maester scowled right back, sitting across from Brienne on a simple wooden chair. 

“Then you must not be very good, maester- _what was your name?_ ” 

“Linton, ser.” The boy had fair hair, a weak chin, and watery blue eyes. Brienne thought he lacked color everywhere but from the faint blush on his cheeks at Jaime’s insult. His voice was rather soft as well and higher pitched than many men.

“Maester Linton, we had a maester from the Citadel when we were at the Wall, Samwell. That boy could stitch up a wound from a dragon’s claw so fast and so well that you could be back up and fighting in less than a night.”

“Jaime, be kind.” Brienne chastised her companion, though she was smirking when he dragged his eyes from Maester Linton and let them rest on her.

The maester stood up and exited the room without so much as a backward glance or a word, bursting past Podrick and disappearing with a swirl of thick brown robes and the clank of heavy maester’s chains. Podrick smirked too, being used to Jaime’s sharp tongue and Brienne’s half-hearted reprimands. When the boy took the maester’s vacated chair, Brienne held her hand out to Jaime. 

“Did you want something from me, wench?” He leaned closer but held his left hand back and away from her.

“My letter, ser, since you seem too preoccupied to read it.” She looked to his hand and then back to his grinning face. His eyes glittered like flecks of sea glass on the bottom of a clear, shallow pool, like the ones so frequently found on Tarth. She hated his eyes, mostly because she loved them. He often complained that her eyes made him open his mouth when he meant to keep it closed. His eyes had the opposite effect on her. Whenever she allowed herself to really look into them, they arrested her, they stole all of the faculties she required to move or speak. There was so much pain there, and yet, so much boyish hope. 

“You told the boy I could read it. Are you breaking faith, my lady?” Golden hair fell into his face as he tilted his head to match his lopsided smile. It brushed across his golden lashes and thankfully hid his eyes behind a veil of gilded fringe. He smiled more these days than she had seen him smile the whole of their history, some five or six years total. She could hardly count all the nights she’d slept beside him, fought beside him, or argued with him. She noticed the grey in his beard more now than she did before, but when he smiled like he was, Brienne had a hard time believing he was more than her own six and twenty, let alone every one of his almost forty or so years. 

“You’re being childish. I didn’t promise you anything, but if you insist, please. Read.” 

He deftly flipped the letter in his one hand, inserting his thumbnail under the wax seal and flicking roughly to open the letter. “The seal is a black trefoil, do you know it?” Jaime looked at her curiously but Brienne only shrugged. He shook the letter out before him and scanned it for a moment. She tried to look over his shoulder, but could only see that it was a short paragraph before he snatched it away to read it more privately. “It is from Fawnton Gower,” he finally announced. “That is Gerold Gower’s brother, is it not?” 

Brienne wracked her brain. The Gower’s were a family from the Stormlands. She should know them. Unfortunately she had been gone from her home so long she could hardly recall their sigil. “I’m not sure, perhaps?” 

Jaime’s eyes lit up, “well you are going to want to be sure, my Lady, as it seems you are about to find yourself one of them.”

“What?” She knew her face looked stupid, she could tell by the way Jaime’s grin widened. 

“It is an offer, my Lady, for your hand. This Fawnton Gower is a second son, says he fought with you at the Wall. I confess, I might remember him. A smallish thing, he was, with dark hair I think. Though everything was dark wasn’t it?” She only nodded solemnly. “Makes no matter as you’ll not have him. Pod, a quill. I’ll dispatch him for you, my Lady. I doubt you’re as adept with your left hand as I am now and we wouldn’t want you opening your stitches.” He wiggled his fingers with a small laugh. Pod jumped up from his chair across from them and grabbed a sheet of parchment and quill from the desk. She had been meaning to write her father but Jaime had monopolized her time in the capitol so thoroughly that she hardly found a spare moment for herself. “Should I let him know it is I who reject the match? Or should I let him think that it’s you? I doubt he would wonder at either of us having abominable handwriting, though yours may still best mine.” Jaime laughed again as he bent over the parchment and Podrick scooted closer to read what Ser Jaime was writing and to hold the ink well. 

“Stop.” Brienne’s voice was small but the scratching of the nib halted.

“My Lady, did you want to hear what I’m writing? Or, perhaps you have something to add? I’ve started with ‘Good Ser,’ since I know that is how you start all of your letters. Well, those not for your father or our good Queen in the North. ” Brienne stood swiftly to tower over the men in her bedchamber. One was young and fresh, with milky skin and a naïveté that astounded even her. The other was older, more grizzled than when they had first met, but every inch as strong and golden as the Warrior himself; Jaime was a true Lion of the Rock. Both were wearing identical grins at her expense and it curdled her stomach like sour milk. 

“Is it so impossible to think that I should be wed?”

Jaime frowned. Podrick was still grinning, but the action looked stuck on his face rather than true. “No, not at all.”

“Then why do you mock it?”

“I am not mocking the idea of your being betrothed, wench, I am mocking Fawnton Gower. I would have expected you to know the difference.”

“Mocking Fawnton Gower because he is reduced to asking for my hand?”

“No, now you’re willfully misunderstanding me, wench.” Pod’s smile was quickly fading as he watched the two of them wearily. It was true that they hadn’t had a proper verbal battle since the end of the Long Night and the beginning of the Second Spring, but the boy shouldn’t have been all that surprised at how quickly the tide of their conversation had changed. The rows they’d had while they traveled together had been legendary. Brienne even thought she’d heard a song about them not a sennight ago, in a ramshackle tavern on what used to be Eel Alley. 

“Then you know this Fawnton Gower? Is he dishonorable? Not good enough to marry a highborn lady?”

“I told you, I can hardly remember the lad. And a lad, he was. He can’t be more than five and twenty, still green.”

“I am six and twenty. What is a year? Am I _green_?”

“You are different.”

“How? How am I different? Is my father not a Lord? Did we not both fight against the Others on the Wall? Are we not both the lesser of two great houses?”

“You are not the lesser of anything. Or anyone.” His scowl was fierce and his voice was a controlled tenor that bespoke fury. She knew that tone, and was well acquainted with the mood that brought it on. Why he had reason to be so furious she couldn’t tell. He knew she was ugly. He knew she was less likely to find a husband than near every other woman in all the Seven Kingdoms. He knew she was ungainly, ungraceful and lacking in any of the other qualities that so many men admired. He already _knew_.

“I wish that were true, but my father deserved a real daughter, or a real son. Not a freak. Not me. You know this. And he is dying, Jaime.” She gritted her teeth at the onslaught of pain that welled up in her stomach. “He would see me wed before he dies. He would have a worthy heir. What kind of child would I be to prevent that when I’ve had a good offer? I cannot expect better, if I do I will be disappointed and so will he.” 

Jaime was silent for a moment and Brienne didn’t know if she wanted him to tell her she was being stupid and dissuade her from the idea of marrying this stranger, or if she wanted him to agree with her. “Podrick,” he said lowly without taking his eyes from hers, “leave us.” The boy scrambled from his position, sloshing ink onto Jaime’s black breeches, and headed for the door. 

“Good day, my lady. Ser.” He nodded once to her and once to Jaime before fleeing the room and slamming the door shut behind him. Jaime stayed seated for only a second longer before surging up with all the will of a man on the battlefield. Before she could so much as take a step back he was before her, his face mere inches from hers.

“You will not talk to me of disappointment. You forget, I’ve met your father, and from what I know of him I can be sure that _he knows_ you are better than this Fawnton Gower. Otherwise Lord Selwyn would have appealed to you on his behalf already. The Evenstar would not disgrace his daughter with an ill match. No. You would be a fool to marry Gower.”

“I would be a fool not to.” 

He growled then and Brienne shivered, suddenly reminded of the sigil of his house, a great, roaring, golden Lion. “You will not marry him,” Jaime gritted out and Brienne scoffed. _How dare he give me an order? He is not my commander anymore_ , she thought, _we are no longer on the Wall_.

“Jaime, you can’t just-”

“Not again.” He turned away from her and paced across the room, like one of the great mountain cats of his house. “I’ll not do this again. I can’t, I can’t and I won’t.”

She couldn’t decipher the meaning in his words but his distress was clear. “Jaime.” His back was turned to her and Brienne gingerly reached out for his shoulder, meaning to calm him. It was clear that he felt she was his only friend in the world. But he was wrong. Tyrion was there, and Pod. Not to mention any number of young, willing, buxom girls that might like to be the Lady of Casterly Rock. “You will not be alone.”

“No, you’re right. I will not be alone. I will have you.” Jaime grabbed her hand on his shoulder and turned to her, his eyes bright. 

“I can’t stay here. We both know King’s Landing is not my place.” She was being as gentle as she could but anger was simmering in her chest. He was being selfish. He would deprive her father of a suitable heir to stave off his own loneliness. It would not do. 

He squeezed her hand once before gently releasing it at her side. He was smiling again, though he had a strange, almost manic glint in his eye that she thought she was unfamiliar with. Quite suddenly she was less angry than she had been and more concerned for herself. She _had_ seen that look in his eye before, many times in fact, but it had never once been trained on her. It was the look he got before he killed something, be it man or beast, wight or monster of the terrible North. It was the look of a hunter, just before its teeth meet the neck of its prey. 

“You’re absolutely right. Your place is not here, nor is it besides fawning Fawnton Gower.”


	2. A Bout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sword fights and verbal sparring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to only update this once a week but it was suggested that perhaps twice a week would be a better pace. I asked _valyriansteel_ , whom this work is for, and after she considered the "greater good," you shall now be receiving twice weekly updates! In other words, you have her to thank for this entirely! Lol. Seeing as I missed Monday you will have two sort of close updates this week on Tuesday and Thursday. I hope everyone is okay with that?
> 
> I, however, not only have to thank _valyriansteel_ for the prompt but also _snowfright_ , who stepped in to beta this and is the most lovely and encouraging beta a gal could ask for! Her work on 'Affiancing' has been pivotal to the development of the story and she works endlessly to make me look good! 
> 
> So, **thank you ladies!**
> 
> Lastly, there are all the people that read, review, and/or leave kudos! You guys are amazing and encouraging and just thank you, thank you, thank you!

Brienne awoke to bright light streaming in through her windows; she stretched, basking in it. Her shoulder ached where Jaime sliced it open in the yard the day before, but the ache was good. It reminded her that she was alive. Brienne sat up carefully, before realizing the movement caused no great pain, and almost jumping out of bed. She was eager to meet Jaime in the yard for their morning sparring session. She caught herself quickly; they’d had an argument the day before, and she was under orders to refrain from swordplay from Maester Linton. _Will he even be there?_ She wondered to herself as she finally pushed away her Lannister red sheets, a gift from the Hand of the King. Tyrion did seem to enjoy giving her awkward presents. She thumbed the Lion head pendant she always wore around her neck absently at the thought. The little man had insisted that if he ever once caught her without it he would geld Podrick (only because Jaime had half drawn his sword at the suggestion Tyrion might punish Brienne). She considered the threat a jest but wore the pendant regardless. 

Brienne stretched again, straightening up, before standing and rolling out her muscles. She was tense, more so than usual, and blamed it on the previous day. After Jaime’s odd declaration that Brienne not marry Lord Gower, he had disappeared from her bedchamber and she saw him not once for the rest of the day. She’d spent her evening finally writing to her father and took dinner with Podrick and the new Master of Arms, a man named Hareton. She did not respond to Fawnton Gower’s request, as of yet, but knew that she would have to before long, lest she run the risk of his withdrawing his proposal. With Hyle Hunt dead, Gower was likely the only proposal she would receive. 

_Not today_ , she thought, skirting around her small writing table and grabbing up her leathers. She was not to spar, that was true, but that did not mean she could not watch, could not assist. She would go to the yard. Likely Ser Jaime _was_ there and would be furious at her for not attending their regular session. She stripped off her nightgown, another gift from the Hand of the King. He told her that this one was for her assistance with the handling of the King on the day his favorite cat gave birth to a litter. She had, in as motherly of a tone as she could muster, persuaded him to allow Maester Linton to remove the kittens and find them good homes, homes that were very far from the keep, which was in danger of being overrun by its feline tenants. The nightgown was Myrish lace and felt too fine for her to wear, too delicate. But King’s Landing was stifling on the nicest of spring evenings and she found the nightgown’s open back and thin fabric rather more comfortable than anything else she’d ever slept in. 

Brienne bound her chest with a strip of thick cotton and pulled on a tunic and a pair of worn woolen breeches. Once those were on she belted her waist and laced up her jerkin. She left her swordbelt and Oathkeeper hanging on her bedpost. She would have no need for true steel today. Finally, pulling her ever-lengthening brittle hair back into a haphazard braid, she left her bedchamber and headed to the yard. 

The shouts of men and the clash of steel were unnerving to her ears as she approached the White Sword Tower, reminding her of the seemingly endless night and the cold of the Wall. After their wounds had healed she’d fought with Jaime in the rebuilt yard at Winterfell every afternoon, and she’s been practicing with him every morning upon their return to King’s Landing. Still, the sounds of battle set her teeth on edge, for just a moment, every day. She ignored the pull in her gut, as she always did, and continued forward. When she arrived, Podrick and Hareton were just outside the armory cheering as Jaime fought with one of the knights from the Lannister host who had stood beside them on the Wall. He was a man named Marbrand from Ashemark, and a good friend of Jaime’s from his youth. Ser Addam was good with a sword, but would have been no match for Jaime had the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard still had use of his right hand. Even so, Ser Addam struggled to beat his once commanding officer. 

“Hareton, Pod,” she said by way of greeting. Both men nodded to her, hardly wanting to take their eyes off the bout. 

“My Lady,” Hareton replied with his eyes still on the tourney swords clashing in the morning light. “I was told not to expect you this morning, that Ser Jaime nicked you well on the shoulder and that you were under orders not to wield a blade until the sutures could be removed.”

Brienne laughed but Pod was nodding enthusiastically. “I heard Maester Linton say it myself, my Lord.”

“And since when does the Master-at-Arms take orders from the Grand Maester?” Brienne asked, surprised that either one of them questioned her presence. She was one of the only regular inhabitants of the yard at this hour, save Jaime, and had built a rather good relationship with Hareton in her weeks at the Red Keep. Or so she’d thought. Sure, they were both quiet by nature, but they saw eye-to-eye on many a subject, chiefly on Jaime Lannister’s ability to near knock Brienne to her knees most days. 

“Ay, I don’t. I take orders from the King, and the King takes suggestions from the Hand. The Hand, he takes orders from no one, but he might be prevailed upon by a few. One of those few being his brother.”

“I don’t understand, are you saying Ser Jaime has told you not to allow me a sword?”

“No, I’m saying _Ser Jaime_ forced Lord Tyrion to have the King order me not to allow you to lift a blade until the maester agrees to it. I’ll need a note to let you into the armory, my Lady. My apologies, if it were up to me you’d be the one out there taking a beating and not Ser Addam.”

_He is punishing me._

“Jaime!” Her cry got his attention and when he turned his head, for only the smallest fraction of a second, Addam lunged and brought the flat of his blade against Jaime’s legs, bowling him over. 

“Yield?” Ser Addam was staring Jaime down, with his sword at his opponents neck and a smile on his face. “Yield,” he asked again. 

“Yes, yes, fine, I yield. Well fought.” Addam removed his sword and reached out his hand to grasp Jaime and pull him to his feet. “My Lady, I admit I expected you much earlier.”

“Did you? I was told Ser Hareton was ordered not to allow me into the armory, on your command.” She crossed her arms and waited on him to right himself and dust off his tunic and breeches.

“Well you can’t blame me, wench, that was Linton’s order, not mine. I am simply enforcing it. I wouldn’t want you to tear your stitches now would I?” 

“It is not your order to enforce. I did not intend to fight this morning, of my own volition, only to assist with Pod.”

“Then you cannot be disappointed. My Lady, after I have sparred with Ser Podrick, would you care to take lunch?” He strode up to her, uncomfortably close, but Brienne was unwilling to back down. She could feel the eyes of Hareton, Addam, and Podrick on the two of them, but her mind was too busy turning over Jaime’s words to notice.

“You? You’re sparring with Pod?”

“You are usually his sparring partner, are you not? Since it is I that made you of no use to him, it is I that shall take your place. That’s fair, I think.” He smiled at her and raised a brow, as if daring her to question him. She noted, regardless of his age, he didn’t look nearly as tired or weary as he had the day before in her chambers. He looked young and strong, the only hint of his age being the silver streaks mingling with the gold of his short beard. He looked more than well enough to train with Podrick. She nodded, smiling genuinely at Jaime.

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, my Lady. And truly he’ll have to learn to fight with someone else soon enough, seeing as you’ll be otherwise occupied.” Jaime shrugged his shoulders flippantly at the statement but Brienne saw the subtle calculation in his eyes, it was a façade. He wasn’t being kind for no reason, he was baiting her. She knew it as surely as she knew where she stood, but in her irritation she couldn’t help but swallow the line. His unjust fury towards her proposal had pushed her past her limits. 

“I don’t take you meaning, ser.” She cooled her tone and addressed him formally, though she knew her flush would give her anger away.

“My Lady, you cannot pretend not to know that your days of swordplay are at an end.” 

The idea was more than she could bear, and though she’d known what he was alluding to, the words were difficult to hear. She fought not to sag under his presumptions and her words came out louder and more heated than she intended. “I do not know this, nor do I see how you could. Do you suppose a mere cut to finish me for the yard?” She would make him acknowledge that this was about Gower. She wanted to hear him say it. She was tired of games and allusions, though the Lannisters never seemed to. She needed Jaime to see that it would be folly to reject the match when it was likely the only one she would receive. She did not think she could marry without his blessing, as much as it pained her to admit it.

“My Lady, there is no need to go into hysterics. I am simply attempting to do you a service, as I doubt Ser Fawnton would appreciate you becoming injured so early in your betrothal. And besides that, you’ll be with child soon enough, Tarth will need an heir and your lord husband will be loath to let you near an armory I’d wager. No, there is nothing for it, you’ll lay down your sword, wench. I am merely taking up your mantle.” Brienne scowled at Jaime’s little speech. She wanted to kick and curse and spit in his stupid grinning face, only he’d stopped grinning. Instead he was staring at her with a scowl as fierce as her own was, as if his words were ash in his mouth. 

“I do not intend to lay down my sword, ser; not today, not tomorrow, and not for any man.” Her words were as tough as her steel, and she meant them. 

“Fawnton Gower intends it, to be sure.”

“Then he shall be disappointed.” The ruling was out of her mouth before she knew it. She clamped her lips shut, her teeth clacking together in her haste. Jaime only smiled, his face relaxing visibly.

“See that he is,” was his terse reply. He spun on his heel and beckoned Pod to him before launching into his first assault. Brienne retreated to the fence to stand beside Hareton and observe the bouts. The lad wasn’t ready when Jaime attacked. Pod barely managed a counter attack before Jaime had his blade at Pod’s throat. “You’re dead. Again.” Addam returned his tourney sword to the armory and waved to Brienne and Hareton as he left the yard, shrugging noncommittally when she flicked her eyes obviously at his mercurial friend. “You’re dead.” She heard Jaime tell Pod again from behind her back, “again.” She turned in time to see Pod slip the blade away from his exposed underarm.

“Ser,” she said loud enough for the older knight to hear her as the two resumed combat.

He swung hard and knocked Pods legs out from beneath him, bringing the point of his sword to Pods neck. “You’re dead. Again.”

“Jaime.” Her voice was stern as she entered the yard, picking up a tourney sword on her way with which to help instruct her pupil. 

Pod stood and fell into stance just in time to block a cutting blow. Jaime withdrew his steel to his hip and lunged up, striking Pod from below and knocking his sword roughly from his hands. “You’re dead, Podrick. Again!”

“Jaime!” She shouted as he bent and kicked Pod’s sword closer to the young knight. Podrick obediently retrieved it and fell into a stance but, as Jaime swung, he was knocked back by Brienne, who intercepted his attack. She grunted in pain but he did not relent as he might have the day before. She fought him back, wrenching her arm up and locking their sword together momentarily before she pushed off. 

For a split second she thought Jaime would attack again but he swung his blade easily up to his shoulder. “You can’t keep mothering the lad Brienne, he’s a knight now.”

“I do not mother him, I teach him. Unlike you, who seem content to merely beat on him like a practice dummy.” 

“I think you should go.” Jaime pushed damp hair from his forehead with his stump as he appraised her.

“I said I would not lay down my sword, ser. I meant it.” She widened her legs, prepared for an argument but, as he opened his mouth to retort, his expression changed. 

“You’re bleeding,” he said, stretching his stump out to her before he caught himself. He dropped his tourney sword in the dirt and shrugged the shield off that was strapped to his right arm, using his left hand to touch the exposed tunic beneath her leathers. It was colored red with her blood. “We’re going to see Maester Linton, you’ve ripped out your stitches, wench.” She hadn’t even realized she’d blocked Jaime with her right hand, and apparently he hadn’t either.

“No. Stay with Pod, but train him. Do not use him to vent your anger. I can make it to Maester Linton on my own.” He looked about to deny her, but nodded without a word and turned back to Podrick. The boy was nervous and trying not to look as though he had been watching their altercation. Brienne didn’t see how he could have avoided it. 

She exited the yard and as she did she heard Jaime instruct Podrick on exactly _why_ he hadn’t been able to block Jaime’s blows as she left, instead of just the song of steel on steel. Brienne smiled to herself, despite the pain. The maester’s chambers were a fairly long way off and by the time Brienne reached Maester Linton her tunic was well and truly ruined. He stitched her up, admonishing her all the while, and when he was finished he ordered her to bathe. She did happily. She was eager to wash off the dirt and disappointed confusion that seemed to coat her skin after her argument with Ser Jaime. 

That afternoon, after her visit to Linton and her bath, Brienne visited Myrcella. The girl was still betrothed to Trystane Martell and was consistently lonely whenever he wasn’t in the capitol, regardless of her number of friends. She longed for Sunspear, Brienne knew, but Tyrion refused to have her sent back until after she and Trystane were wed. Surprisingly, despite her loneliness, she often sent away the girls that were meant to entertain her. The girls were hostages mostly, and some sent to foster from less well-to-do families in the Crownlands, but all seemed to like Myrcella well enough. Instead she preferred the company of her uncles. _Uncle_ , Brienne corrected herself, _and father_. And oddly the girl also rather enjoyed Brienne’s company. 

Myrcella was the picture of her mother, or so Tyrion and Jaime often asserted, except for the terrible scar that ran along her cheek and ended in her missing ear. She let her hair hang over that side delicately, shielding people from her deformity, but she never seemed concerned with it much to Brienne. Jaime said that scar was the reason Myrcella liked her so well, he told her once that Myrcella had been terribly upset about her ear until she’d seen Brienne. She liked to think it was true, but she expected it had more to do with her ability to play Cyvasse with the princess than anything else. Tyrion had taught Jaime at some point and Jaime, in a fit of boredom on the wall, taught Brienne. Brienne and Jaime were fairly evenly matched, with both of them having their share of wins and losses, but neither could manage to beat the Hand of the King. On occasion Myrcella might beat her uncle, but more often than not he trounced all of them soundly. 

After spending the afternoon in front of a Cyvasse board with Myrcella, and taking dinner in her bedchamber, all to avoid Ser Jaime, Brienne retired to her table and sat down to respond to Ser Fawnton. She stared the parchment for over an hour before finally picking up her quill to write, her left thumb rubbed gently over the gold lion at her throat. 

_“Dearest Lady Sansa,”_ she said aloud as she awkwardly scribbled, her right arm aching. _“I received an interesting letter…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this little gift of a story! As always questions, comments, criticisms and kudos are are more than welcome and greatly appreciated. You guys are fantastic! See you Thursday!


	3. A Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avoidance tactics and late night visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday!
> 
> Wow. This has garnered such amazing responses! Thank you so much for all of your enthusiasm and encouragement, and thank you for just reading this at all. It started as a gift for my lovely beta, _valyriansteel_ but you guys have made it so much more. 
> 
> A big thank you goes out to my beta for this story, _snowfright_ , because she does some amazing work and takes time out of her schedule and her own writing to work on this. Thanks! 
> 
> You guys are the absolute best, thank you so much for liking me! Lol.

One day passed, and then two. Brienne successfully managed to avoid Ser Jaime for the duration, in favor of taking her meals in her rooms, spending time with Podrick, Myrcella, Hareton and occupying herself outside of the walls of the keep.

Myrcella allowed Brienne to pass both mornings with her in the Maidenvault, a place Jaime was allowed nowhere near. Myrcella said she preferred the apartments there to the ones she had held in Maegor’r Holdfast. Brienne gracefully lost well over a dozen games of Cyvasse and listened to the girl wax about Dorne and Trystane Martell. And while she was uncomfortable during the interludes, they afforded her the solitude from male company that she needed. Myrcella seemed to understand, as she remarked very early in Brienne’s first visit that Brienne was spending less time with her _uncle_ Jaime. Brienne often wondered whether Myrcella knew her parentage, whether the she acknowledged her uncle Jaime sired her. If she did, she didn’t let it show in her behavior towards either of her uncles. When Brienne confessed that she was avoiding Myrcella’s eldest uncle because of his distaste for Brienne’s potential suitor, the girl laughed for much longer than was socially acceptable. Brienne bore it with dignity, and when the princess finished laughing neither of them spoke of it again. Although Myrcella did say she hoped Brienne and her uncle would make up soon since they were such _good_ friends. It was touching, how much Myrcella cared for Tyrion and Jaime as her surrogate fathers after enduring so many horrible losses.

Later, after leaving Myrcella to have a lunch with what remained of her family each day, Brienne, Hareton, and Podrick rode out with a packed lunch and the younger lads showed Brienne the remnants of the Street of Steel and took her to see the blackened crystal towers of the Sept of Baelor. Brienne marveled at the sights of the city. Since their return to King’s Landing, many weeks ago, Jaime had completely monopolized her time. He rarely allowed her a spare moment to herself, let alone time to venture into the capitol without him. He favored the tavern-inns on the relatively unburned Eel Alley, and often dragged her there to drink and sing and forget. He did take her to see the Dragon Pit, she had to admit it was an amazing sight, to see where Daenarys would have housed her beasts had she survived. He rarely showed an interest in straying beyond the Red Keep though, or the practice yard. Brienne would have been happy to explore the city for hours, days. King’s Landing was rising from the ashes and looked wholly different than her last visit. It had far fewer people, but much more hope. 

The last time she had been in Kings Landing it had been before the Long Night, and she had not stayed for long. She’d finally returned her charge to his family and in return he’d given her Oathkeeper, and a quest. She hadn’t fully trusted Ser Jaime then, not yet, though by that point he’d already gone a long way in earning it. At the time she hadn’t known how many times she would hold his life in her hands, or how often her life would be in his. She hadn’t known she would swear to serve him in the shadow of the Wall, along with multitudes of men and women prepared to die. She hadn’t yet seen him stare down the Whitewalker hoards, backlit by dragon fire, his gilt armor glowing like the rising sun and making the ice around him glitter like molten gold. He had been a god then, and she had loved him. No, their first time in King’s Landing he had been broken, a man desperately trying to put himself back together. A man rediscovering his own honor, and he’d entrusted it to her. He’d told her there was a horse waiting for her in the stables, to carry her on the quest he had given her, one as ugly as she was. But what Brienne had found was the strongest, most beautiful mare in King’s Landing according to the stable master. She had almost cried. 

Brienne furiously clenched her teeth. She owed him so much, and had given him so much. Why could he not let her have this? It tortured her. It made her want to tear her hair out, and his. That he held back his blessing made her wish she could cut, or hack, or destroy something. She turned her head to examine her shoulder by candlelight and gingerly touched the bandage she’d just replaced, wincing. _No, there will be no hacking or cutting of anything. No fighting._ Brienne slumped slightly and lay back in her bed, feeling defeated. She would have to reply to Fawnton Gower in the morning, there was no more putting it off. 

Brienne awoke, fully clothed in her unlaced breeches and half open tunic, disoriented. She’d been dreaming of Tarth. She’d been swimming and had just reached the beach, there she saw a bird. It was red, yellow, and blue and it was pecking, pecking nonstop at her door. _No, that’s not right. There was no door._ But the pecking continued and her foggy mind realized the pecking was not a bird, but a person. Someone was knocking at her chamber door. Brienne sat up and got out of bed. “Coming,” she groaned. She shuffled across the floor and unlatched the door, opening it carefully. The hall was dark, but Brienne knew Jaime’s shape in the darkness. She always would after the ceaseless dark of the Wall. She knew his shape as sure as she knew her own reflection. “Ser Jaime,” she breathed, surprised. She couldn’t help that her words were a breathy squeak in the black. 

“Let me in?” His words were less of a question and more of an order. Brienne stepped back instantly, allowing him across the threshold without thought. 

“Light,” she said, moving deftly through her room and grabbing a matchstick. She struck it against the stone on the ledge until it burst into flame. She lit the five candles in one of the standing candelabras; there was at least one in every corner of every room in the castle.

“Thank you,” he said, closing the door behind him. Jaime was also fully dressed, yet he looked more presentable than she did in his beige and red calfskin coat and soft, black wool breeches. _He always will_ , she mused. “Were you asleep?” His face was creased with concern but Brienne brushed it off, her irritability at his behavior the past two days winning out over her desire to calm him. 

“I was.” Her reply was terse and cool. Her respect for him warring with her desire to rail at him for his blatant refusal to allow her to fulfill her duty and wed for Tarth.

“It is early yet, not midnight.” His frown turned up slightly and Brienne felt an answering scowl creep across her face.

“I was tired.”

“Ah,” he said, tapping his long forefinger against his nose before leveling it at her. “And still furious with me?” 

“I am not, ser. You’ve let me know your opinion; there is naught more to it.” Brienne made to cross to her door, intending to open it and to bid him leave, but he instead sat casually at the edge of her bed. 

“And are you taking my advice?” His face was eager in the flickering light.

“I-”

 

“You haven’t replied to his letter in three days. Forgive me for saying it but if you wanted to marry Ser Fawnton, and I was so completely wrong, wouldn’t you already have written to him?” She tried to speak again but her mouth merely hung open. “I am thinking that the Maid of Tarth does not, in point of fact, wish to marry Fawnton Gower at all.”

“Of course I don’t wish it,” she admitted angrily, before reining in her temper enough to try to implore him to understand. “I must do this for my father, for Tarth. I know you don’t understand, but you must try.”

“You’re taking this much better than Cersei did, she responded like I would have,” he said conversationally, apparently unruffled by her admission. Brienne was surprised to hear him speak his sister’s name, he did so very sparingly. “She was furious at being used as a bartering tool, to secure land and incomes. She railed and screeched and cried and stomped her feet and beat her fists. Not you though, wench.”

“We were not much alike, your sister and I.” Brienne knew very little about Cersei Lannister, only that she had been killed by Sansa’s sworn shield, Sandor Clegane. She’d tried to poison the King, her son, when it looked as though she would lose during her trial by combat. After her champion lost, the champion of the faith put his sword through her stomach. Some who were there said King Tommen wrapped his arms so tightly around his dying mother’s neck that he choked her to death before she bled out. When the letter imparting her death had reached the Wall, Jaime had shut himself up in the Lord Commander’s tower for what would have amounted to two days had the sun ever risen. Eventually he’d let Brienne in, took the food she brought for him, and told her everything. She had been disgusted at first, but also heartbroken. He had loved his sister, and she had been good…once. The queen had grace, and beauty, but she had been cruel to her twin brother. She had grown power hungry and destructive in the end, and so he had abandoned her to her death. Jaime was supposed to be her champion, her white knight. Instead he had left her to die by the hands of Sandor Clegane, and followed Brienne to the Wall. _Miraculously_ , she thought, _he did not blame me_. 

Brienne straightened, determined to listen to whatever Jaime had come to tell her. Yes, he was very often infuriating and childish. He was entirely lacking self-awareness and he could be rash, brash, reckless, and often as cruel as his sister when he needed to be, but he had never once abandoned Brienne. He had never led her astray. He had never lied to her or made a jape of her, not since Harrenhal. 

“Then perhaps you’ll take what I am about to suggest better than she did as well,” he said, reaching his good hand out to her. Brienne stared at his outstretched fingers for a second longer than she should have but, just as he began to withdraw with a pained look, she reached out to him. His hand was dry and cool beneath her skin, which was still warm from sleep. She let him tug her down to sit beside him and faced him in the half-darkness.

“I trust you, whatever advice you have in this, ser. I am happy to hear it. I do not wish to marry without your blessing, Jaime.”

“You have my blessing,” relief flooded her as he spoke the words. She felt a weight fall from her shoulders and she sagged gently against him, smiling. 

“Thank you, ser. I-”

“To marry me.” Her heart stuttered in her chest. Her face fell. Brienne blinked in the darkness and held her breath, waiting for the jape. 

“You?” Her voice was no more than a whisper but he heard her.

“Yes, marry me. Be my lady wife, the Lady of Casterly Rock.” He turned to her fully and gripped her hand tightly in his, pulling her closer to him. “Forget Fawnton Gower,” he demanded sternly. “A lesser son from a lesser house,” Jaime scoffed and shook his head. “Marry me. I know I’m an old lion, and you are young and whole, whereas I am sullied and maimed.” He held up his stump and contemplated it with a wry smile before letting it fall into his lap. “I am not the man that you deserve, or that I once was, but I can give you a good fight in the yard and I think I might make you happy in the marriage bed. I believe I am still quite capable, in that respect.” He smirked, leaning in close to her and brushing his nose against her cheek. “I warmed your bed well enough on the Wall. You can’t pretend not to know I wanted you then as well. I feigned that it was the warmth, or the memory of another far away-dead or in a dungeon cell, but what I wanted was you.” His voice was a hot growl in her ear and she remembered the hard press of his pelvis at her back night after night. The telling hardness she ignored as she pressed against him tighter to share her warmth and the tingling arousal that she had tried so desperately to forget since those long, cold nights had ended.

“You jape, at a time like this?” Brienne jerked back and tugged her hand from his in horror. “How could you?” She tried to hold back the tears she felt stinging at the corners of her eyes. Her face heated and she sucked in a ragged breath, holding in the pain she felt swelling in her chest. 

“Calm down. I don’t jape,” he cursed and grasped at her with his good hand and strong arms, pulling her large frame to him and holding her against him roughly. “I don’t! Gods, I _can’t_. Not when it comes to you.” 

Brienne struggled against him, letting out a strangled cry. “Why are you doing this?” She begged of him, “let me go!” As if by magic she was abruptly free. Brienne was on her feet and away from the bed in less time than it took for her mind to catch up to her movements. The shock of no longer being held sent her reeling and she stumbled against her small writing table. Jaime was on his feet but she held her hand up. “Stay where you are.”

“Come wench, you are unwell. Did I truly shock you? Did you not know before I did? I confess, I hadn’t entertained the idea until I read that fool’s letter, and spoke with Tyrion, but he was so sure…” He trailed off, staring at the floor in thought before lifting his eyes to hers in the dim light. “I love you, I’m sure of it. I am a man _made_ to love, it seems. Tyrion says it is my best quality. I am worthless without it, apparently.” 

“You don’t love me,” she said sadly. “The Gods didn’t make me to be loved by men.” 

“And yet I’m here, loving you regardless.” He took a step towards her but Brienne straightened and held her hand up once more.

“You are cruel.”

“I’m a cripple as well, I’ve been called worse. If you mean to scare me off, wench, you’ll have to do better than that. You and I both know I have the sharper tongue of the two of us, you’ll lose this game.” 

“It is not a game, ser. I am not a game. I will not be an amusement for you. You may play your game with someone else.” She swiped at her eyes, trying vainly to remove some of the offending tears that had broken through.

“Do you think I am unaware?” He laughed bitterly. “Have you heard the phrase, ‘never tickle a sleeping dragon’? Or perhaps, ‘never tease a live dragon’? I have, and I know better than to jest with you, my lady. You may not be a Targaryan, but you are as fierce as any one of those dragons from across the sea, and far more likely to remove my head from my body. I am beginning to be offended by your lack of faith in me. There is no one else, there has not been for some time.”

“Jaime.” Her voice broke and she gritted her teeth. He smiled. 

“The things I do for love,” he said cryptically, more to himself, she thought, than to her. She meant to contradict him but he continued. “This is not over, my lady. My mind is set.” Jaime went to her door, pulling it open and stepping out. He turned to her, before he pulled the door shut behind him and left her alone in her chamber again. “I’ll will expect you in the yard tomorrow, wench. Be there, and promise me you’ll not write to Gower in the meantime.” Brienne stared at him, once again struck dumb by his words. “Promise me, Brienne.”

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading. Your questions, comments, criticisms, concerns, and your kudos are more than welcomed, they are appreciated!


	4. A Short Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is which Brienne gets many gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday!! I am off to work but before I go I give you chapter 4. I know a lot of you had very high hopes for Jaime's courtship of Brienne, and I hope that I haven't built it up so much that you're disappointed. A big thank you to my favorite betas in the whole wide world, _valyriansteel_ (who this is for) and _snowfright_ who is an amazing writer herself and took the time to beta this work for me, among others. And last but not least, thank you all so, so much! Please enjoy and I will see you lovely people Thursday!
> 
> PS There is a point in this chapter where I reference a horse that is a wooden stand and not an actual horse. Just a note to avoid some confusion that was pointed out to me by a lovely reviewer.

Chapter 4  
Brienne lay in bed for a long time after Jaime left. She thought about what he had said, and about what he hadn’t said. She almost believed him, that he wanted her to marry him for nothing more than love. She wished she could. It was true that he had never lied to her, even when she was the captor and he the captive. He had, however, always been a selfish man, by his own admittance. For all that he was, Jaime was a man first, and Brienne didn’t see how any man could love a beast. Beasts were meant to be fought, not admired. They were certainly not to be wedded and bedded and loved. Brienne rose and by the light of the moon she crept across her room and found the old, antique looking glass left for her by a well-meaning maidservant. She wanted to believe Jaime. She knew she loved him; she couldn’t say for how long she had known, but she could no longer remember a time when she didn’t. But, with tears streaming down her face and neck, pooling in the hollows of her collarbones, she saw the truth in the glass. 

She awoke with the sun, a headache pounding between her ears and her fingers stiff from clutching the slender silver neck of the mirror all night. She sat up, rolled the kinks from her neck, and stood with determination. She would force him to be honest with her, to admit to her that he didn’t love her, not like _that_ least ways, and to give her his blessing to marry. She would prove to him that she was strong enough to wed this ‘lesser man’ and produce heirs for her house. Brienne was not a maiden to be saved by Jaime, nor was she to be used as a broken man might use a crutch. She was strong, and so was he, and she resolved to make him see that. 

She had a maid bring her a tub filled to spilling with hot water and lavender. Her father used to bathe her with lavender when she cried over long, and gave herself headaches, from missing her mother. The bath soothed her head, and when she finally laced up her breeches and jerkin, she felt ready to face Jaime. The sun was still new, high in the sky and warm, but the morning was cool and Brienne felt a chill when the wind in the yard struck her face. 

“My lady, you have not disappointed me. I feared you might not show and I would have to drag you from your chamber.” He was leaning casually against the fence outside the armory at the base of the White Sword Tower, looking not the least bit concerned about whether or not she would decide to come.

“I am here, ser. Say what you have to say.”

“I have said all I intend to say on the matter. Now, if you’ll not take me at my word, my lady, then I must let my deeds speak in my stead. You cannot fight, I know, but I chose the yard to be our first meeting place as lovers because I did not truly _know_ you until I faced you with a blade in my hand. You remember our first dance, don’t you?” The words fell from his lips like chain links, heavy and warm, wrapping around her and binding them together. _Lovers._

“I do,” her words were a mere whisper and she cursed herself for letting her strength flee from her so quickly under the onslaught of his attentions. 

“I had intended this as a name-day gift, my Lady,” Jaime said, turning and pulling the armory door open and beckoning her to follow. “As such, I must apologize for its lack of romance. Although, considering the woman I intend to woo, I think it will be appreciated more than any silk gown or bejeweled hairnet.” She followed him into the sparsely lit armory. The wide open windows let a cool breeze ruffle her hair as she did. He was standing beside a small wooden horse bearing a large, enameled shield. 

The shield was kite-shaped and too large for use in combat, and far too well-crafted. It was obviously decorative. The metal rim was inlaid with thin gold lines in the shape of roaring lions. They chased each other around the face of the shield which was painted and enameled in vibrant shades of blue and rose red, the sigil of Tarth. Yellow suns swirled and looked to burn against the rose of their background, and the crescent moons seemed to hang in a twilight sky the color of sapphires. Brienne took a halting step forward to run her hands over the delicate metal work. “You don’t know my name-day, ser.” 

Jaime laughed, a loud guffaw that broke the trance she had been in. “All the more reason for me to have a gift ready, my lady.”

She marveled as she walked around the back of the horse, running her fingers across the buttery leather of the enarmers and the guige. There too she saw embroidered lions in the leather, their tails seeming to twitch as she tilted the leather back and forth. “Lions,” she said simply, acknowledging the inclusion of the sigil of house Lannister. 

“Yes, well, I couldn’t help but think you might like a small reminder of the one who would bestow such a fine gift. I imagined it would hang in the feasting hall of the Evenstar and couldn’t help wanting a little credit, I’m afraid. Though, now I think on it, perhaps we’ll hang it in Casterly Rock. It may serve to remind our children of Tarth, and their grandfather’s very noble house.” Brienne couldn’t help the look that crossed her face, she was sure Jaime noticed it. It was shock, mingled with fear and confusion and something like desire.

_A mother. He wanted her to be a **mother**._

Brienne’s mind jumped to Lady Catelyn. Brienne could hardly remember her mother, much like she knew Jaime could not remember his own, but she did know of mothers. At a point in her life, no more than four of five years past, the idea would have been laughable. Brienne was not nurturing, she was not soft. But in the years since she had seen something she hadn’t expected, she had met Lady Catelyn Stark and she had seen strength. Lady Catelyn had been strong and as fierce as a direwolf when it came to her children. She had a strength that was wholly unfamiliar to Brienne, a strength that resided not in muscles but in something deeper and more easily hidden. It was a woman’s strength, Brienne had thought at the time. As she grew, however, she learnt the actuality. Lady Catelyn Stark had not a woman’s strength, but a mother’s strength. Brienne felt a rush of pride that Jaime was proposing she too had that fortitude, that he would trust his future offspring to her hands. 

Brienne struggled to remind herself that Jaime already had children. Tommen and Myrcella might not be acknowledged, but they were his all the same. She could not take him from them. Those children needed their father as much, if not more, than they needed their _uncle_ Jaime. When she looked back to him, Jaime’s gaze was tender and hopeful and too much for her. Brienne smiled, carefully. “Thank you,” she began, unsure of how to express her sentiment. He nodded, gratified, but she raised her hand to silence him. “But I cannot take this.”

To his credit he didn’t look at all surprised by her rejection of the gift. “Of course not. It is too expensive, too delicate, and not near practical enough. I would never expect you to take such a thing. That is why I have made plans for its packing and travel. I had intended it to go straight to your father’s house, but seeing as I have changed your plans somewhat, I shall have it held in my apartments until I can secure its passage to the Rock.” He stepped brusquely around the horse and shield to stand before her. “If you are to be my wife, and bear my children, than it shall be hung in a place of honor before my table. And if you are not, if you insist on refusing me and fighting me at every turn to the point that you go against my every wish and marry Ser Fawnton, than it shall still hang in a place of honor before my table. The only difference will be instead of a reminder to my children of their mother, it will be a reminder to me.”

Brienne sucked in a breath as he passed, touching her hand briefly as he did. He allowed her not a word. She wanted to follow him, to spin him around and raise her blade to his neck. She wanted his honesty, his honor. Her eyebrows knitted and her brow creased. Perhaps she’d already gotten those things from him? Hadn’t he always been painfully truthful to her? Hadn’t he told her the story of his life, of his family? She did not follow him, but she stayed in the armory for a long time, her fingers occasionally reaching out to brush against the embroidered lions or the enameled face of her gift. _They would be green eyed_ , she thought, _with straw-colored hair, my freckles, and his smile._

Her chamber felt cold and empty when she returned to it. Brienne stripped off her pointless jerkin, reveling in the free feeling of her skin against the unbound linen, and unbraided her hair with a sigh. It was growing longer, she mused. She would have to cut it afore long. A braid was a liability in a fight, an easy target. Fawnton Gower’s letter was still on her writing table, it was beside the letters she’d written her father and Queen Sansa. Brienne rubbed her face and decided to venture out of her chamber once more. She knew she could come across nothing as difficult as facing Jaime had been. Knotting her lengthening hair sloppily, she rose, grabbing the letters she’d written as she went. 

The rookery was quite a long walk and Brienne used it, not to reflect on her increasingly difficult dilemma, but to try and clear her mind. Jaime had once told her he loved to see her struggle with ‘these dilemmas’ as he had called them and she wondered if he was enjoying this particular struggle. The castle was relatively quiet and she saw few people as she made her way. She came across the normal troupe of guardsmen, and the seemingly important individuals who always walked as if they were going somewhere infinitely more important than where she thought they must actually be headed. They used to look at her oddly, though now most of them avoided her eye. Tyrion and Jaime suffered no injury to her, and King Tommen was overly fond of her. Although the King did seem fond of a great many things, as young as he was. 

The maester, thankfully, was not in the rookery when she approached. Samwell had taught her a little about Ravens when they’d been at the Wall. She knew enough to identify which ravens flew to which lands and which to specific keeps and holdfasts. The ravens of the Stormlands were hearty and kept near the back of the rookery. Brienne fixed her message to one of the ones familiar with her island, and sent it off with a bit of corn before it left. After seeing off her first letter, Brienne hunted back closer to the door for one of the dusky gray ravens from the North. She smiled as she tied the missive to the foot of the muscular raven awaiting its package and treat. Her letters to Sansa, as of yet, had only spoken of her time at the keep, and of Jaime’s improvement with his left hand, and of Podrick. She thought Sansa might enjoy this next letter somewhat more than Brienne’s previous correspondence. The young woman was as fierce and strong as her mother, but with a streak of romance running through her. She had begged Brienne over and over to tell her of her escape from Harrenhal, of the bear pit. On their journey North, after the second death of her mother, the only thing that would bring a smile to Sansa’s face for days was when Podrick and Jaime would sing ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’. It never failed to make Brienne blush and Sansa grin. 

One night, sleeping huddled together in the damp cold of the Wall, Jaime had slid his arm around her waist and whispered the meaning of the words into her ear. She could still feel his hot breath tickling her, sliding down her spine and into her toes. She had shamefully sighed and panted when he pressed against her back that night with his hands delving beneath her furs, hot on the skin of her stomach. At the time she had thought that perhaps he had wanted comfort, something familiar, but now she was unsure. They never spoke of the near dishonor between them most nights. And although they were hardly ever alone, more than one man must have suspected Jaime of taking her maidenhead. Yet at the Wall, she was never called the Kingslayer’s whore. It didn’t matter that they were never apart more than an hours’ time or that they slept only in the presence of each other-excepting those first days after he learned of the death of his sister. The men of the Wall never questioned their new commander and his large, graceless companion. 

Brienne ached for those nights. She never thought she would miss the bleakness, the comforting darkness. When she left she’d vowed never to think on the bone numbing chill, or of the slick ice beneath her feet, but now she found herself wishing for it. Brienne wanted desperately to go back to the time when she was no longer Brienne of Tarth, heir to the Evenstar, Lord Selwyn Tarth. Back to when Jaime Lannister hadn’t been the uncle of the King, or brother of the Hand. When he hadn’t been the Lord of Casterly Rock, but had just been _Ser Jaime_. Or had that been an illusion? 

She shook off her melancholy and descended the steep rookery steps, careful not to slip on the thin layer of bird shit and dust that coated the stairway, and headed in the direction of her chambers. She skirted the corridors that Jaime most often frequented with the exception of the ones that were nearer her chamber, and avoided looking at anyone she passed. Brienne was sick with indecision and wanted nothing more than to spend the day alone. When she entered her chamber she was surprised to find the Hand of the King seated comfortably at her writing table, quill in hand. 

“My Lord Hand,” she stuttered out in shock, bowing.

“Please Lady Brienne, you know me well enough to call me Tyrion. Or Lord Tyrion if you must. It seems my brother is intent on out-doing me in gift giving.” Brienne ran thumb over the Lion pendent at her throat. Tyrion’s eyes, one as jade green as his brothers and the other as black as brackish water, watched the action intently. “My sweet sister had a similar necklace to the one you’re wearing, very similar. I confess that is why I gave it to you.” 

“Why? Why would you give me such a thing, a reminder of your sister?”

“You asked something like that when I presented it to you, did you not? Well, now you may have your answer. I was attempting to show my brother what he was too close to see.”

“Ser Jaime?” She couldn’t read the youngest Lannister the way she was able to read the elder one. Jaime might be a mystery to her now, at this moment, but on the Wall and before then, she could always see into him. She knew his motivations and his mannerisms. Tyrion was too clever by half for her to puzzle out. 

“Yes, your soon-to-be Lord Husband is a great warrior, and a near brilliant military leader, but he is an inexperienced lover.”

“I have not accepted him.”

“If you have but one intelligent bone in that large frame of yours, you will. I have yet to see a man who loves more deeply, or foolishly, than my brother.” Tyrion hopped down from the chair he’d been seated in and waddled towards her. Brienne wasn’t sure whether or not to be insulted or complimented by the little man, but she couldn’t deny the truth of his words. “I used to think if Cersei rose from the dead and begged entrance into his tower window, that he would let her in. She would grab away his soul and Jaime would gladly die of the loss. They would spend an eternity together in death. But then, I met you.” Tyrion reached out and took her hand, resting a something cold and heavy in her palm. “He bid me give this to you, my lady.” 

She lifted her hand and opened her fingers, curious of the item. It was a comb with silver teeth and blue sapphires inlaid along the top. The comb was old, terribly old, and the silver was tarnished slightly between its tines. “Where did it come from?”

“It was our mothers. He can hardly remember her, though he tells me he dreamed of her once. He told me he dreamt of you once, too. It’s funny that this is the thing he kept of her. Not one of her many rubies or any of the gold rings and chains my father had crafted for her, not a swath of crimson dress fabric or a lock of golden hair, but tarnished silver and sapphires. He does love the color, and I suppose there is no accounting for personal taste.” Tyrion skirted her and made his way to the door at her back.

Brienne’s voice caught in her throat at the insinuation. “Can he love me?”

“Oh, yes.” Tyrion answered from behind her, opening the door.

“Why?”

“Would you like for me to list the reasons? I am afraid I cannot count that high, my lady, but I am sure he intends to prove it to you.” The door clicked shut behind her at his departure and Brienne was finally left alone.

When she took dinner that evening she was served nothing but dessert, regardless of what she asked for. She had two helpings of berries and cream.

Later, when she retired to her chamber, she found newly tooled boots at the foot of her bed. They were soft leather, tinted red with golden clasps at the top, and had a note pinned to them with only one letter hastily scribbled on it. _“J”_

When she awoke the next morning there were blue and red flowers blooming in a crystal vase on her mantle. 

After stealing some crusty bread from the kitchens to break her fast, Brienne longed to practice in the yard, carefully. But Hareton once again refused her entrance to the armory. He did gift her with a small dagger. A gift from her ‘betrothed,’ he’d said, “an apology for not allowing you to spar, my lady. Ser Jaime told me to tell you, my lady, that this gift is the promise that his lady wife never be without good steel.”

At lunch she was, thankfully, served fish and greens instead of dessert. Myrcella called for minstrels. They knew only one song, ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair,’ and they sang it for the pair. Ten times. The princess was giddy with laughter.

In the late afternoon, when she and Podrick went to the stables to fetch horses for their now routine trip into the capitol, she found a beautiful dappled mare where her usual gray bay would have been. Podrick grinned and turned a pale shade of red when she asked where the horse had come from. “Ser Jaime had me saddle your new horse for you this morning, my lady.”

Ser Jaime had been curiously absent from all of these exchanges, all of these embarrassing moments where she longed to rail and shout and scream and cry. His gifts were as wonderful and frustrating as they were painful. When she returned to the keep, she left Pod to tend the horses and headed once again to her bedchamber. Brienne was anxious at what she would find but thankfully she had no visitors and no gifts. She called to have a copper basin brought up to her so that she might clean off the dust of the day. After she was finished she sat at her table and picked up her quill, leaning over one of the blank parchments and writing in fits and stops. When she was finished there were three letters littering the surface of her writing table. One was addressed to her from Fawnton Gower, asking for her hand. She tossed that letter into the fire; the one Jaime had found so laughable only days before. The two remaining were addressed to Ser Fawnton, in two different hands, and offered two possible solutions to one problem. Brienne stared at the letters for a long time, letting her candle burn down as she thought. 

Finally she stood resolutely and grabbed one, rolling and sealing it deftly with a candle, wax and the seal that Tyrion had left her, before leaving her bedchamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate all of your kudos, questions, comments, and criticisms! Thank you for any and all feedback, you guys are great. See you Thursday!


	5. A Dinner Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans and Plots, as usual in King's Landing.
> 
> UPDATED A DAY EARLY SINCE I HAVE OBLIGATIONS TOMORROW MORNING! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the LAST chapter of Affiancing! I'm just kidding, there is an epilogue that will be released Monday! Woo! For serious though, you guys are pretty fucking amazing, and I love each and every one of you. A special thanks to _valyriansteel_ who this story is for and who gave me this amazing prompt to work with. And of course, a huge THANK YOU to _snowfright_ who is an amazing beta and has worked wonders on this!

She wanted things to be perfect, needed them to be perfect. Brienne wiped the sweat from her palms onto her breeches as she paced. Tyrion was busy, she knew, but she had to speak with him before she finalized her plans. She’d sent a note first thing after waking, to see if she could beg a private audience with the Hand of the King, outlining the situation and soliciting his assistance. When she received a reply, via Podrick, that he would see her immediately, she hadn’t been expecting to be made to wait outside his chamber door for several minutes. Each second that passed felt like an eternity, eventually a page emerged from the personal apartments of the Hand with three sour looking lords of the Crownlands in tow. It was her turn. 

 

“My lady, I am so sorry for the inconvenience. I had some guests that would not be dispensed with as easily as I might have hoped. It seems, regardless of common foes, Lords must also busy themselves with fighting one another.” Tyrion Lannister hopped from his perch behind the large weirwood desk he sat behind to greet her. It was a gift of tribute from his former wife, the Queen in the North. It had travelled with Brienne and Jaime upon their departure from the North and went on ahead of them when they turned away from the Kingsroad and ventured east into the Stormlands and towards Tarth. Sansa had always had a fondness for Tommen, as she’d confessed to Brienne in the past, and respected his decision to name her first husband Hand of the King. “In regards to your note, my brother is quite fond of pike dishes. That particular fish reminds him of the Rock. And of course, he does rather favour desserts as you have learned. It is a trait Tommen has inherited in spades.” He took her hand and led her to be seated, though she would have rather stood for their conversation, being that she did not intend to stay long.

 

“Pike,” Brienne questioned, making sure she understood him clearly. “Is there any specific-”

 

“Brienne, if I might speak plainly.” Tyrion climbed the small step stool at the edge of the desk to reseat himself and turned to her, resting his elbows on the polished surface and his clasped hands beneath his chin. She met his mismatched eyes, open and sincere, and nodded. She always preferred plain truths to pretty lies. “If you intend to give him news that he will not like, then no amount of dishes or desserts will take away the sting. If you intend to tell him what he wants to hear, then there will be little need of dinner. Truthfully it’s a wonder he has restrained himself thus, considering his excitement at the revelation.” Tyrion raised his eyebrows, lecherously insinuating less than honourable desires. She was no stranger to Jaime’s bodily needs, but she blushed all the same. She had no idea what Jaime had shared with his brother but she was hot with embarrassment at the possibility that Jaime had told Tyrion of their nights at the wall, of her submission to his touches, of her clenched eyes and quiet sighs in the dark. 

 

“My lord, my mind is my own and what I intend is for your brother alone.” Brienne stood to leave, having gotten what she had come for. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion, for your advice.” Tyrion’s smile was wide and unsettling. She found that she liked Tyrion Lannister very much, but he had a way about him of knowing what she was thinking without her having to say so. It made her uncomfortable and when she’d confided her feelings to Jaime he had agreed, saying Tyrion had always been too smart by half. Just now the smile on the Hand of the King said to her that, while her mind was her own, her thoughts were not and she was an open book to him. 

 

“As you will, my Lady, I wish you luck in your endeavours.” Brienne thanked him, turning for the door. “And Lady Brienne, wear something that will match the comb. It will bring out your eyes.” Brienne stuttered in a deep breath, not turning to meet his gaze, and pulled open the door to leave. She headed straight to the kitchens to inquire on the availability of pike. 

 

After she left the kitchen, avoiding the gaze of the inquisitive cooks and one very inquisitive serving wench, Brienne immediately set out to find Myrcella. After a cursory walk through the Maidenvault, to no avail, Brienne managed to locate the princess in the royal sept. Brienne had only poked her head in, not expecting to find the girl there, and was surprised to see her at the altar of the Maiden. “Oh!” Brienne’s hushed exclamation reverberated around the stone chamber louder than she expected. 

 

Myrcella’s head whipped around but when she caught sight of Brienne she smiled timidly and waved her inside. The high crystal windows colored the light a multitude of hues, dappling the carved faces of the gods and making them seem almost real. Myrcella’s golden hair, so like her father’s, was shining green, then blue, then red and gold again as she shifted to make room beside the altar for Brienne. In days past Brienne had prayed to the gods, though the Warrior was the one to whom she prayed to most. She had not knelt before the Maiden’s altar in many years, not since she departed Tarth to join King Renly’s host.

 

“Thank you for joining me, Lady Brienne.” Myrcella smiled at her again before returning her gaze to the stone Maiden. She lit another candle and passed it to Brienne, who took it shakily in hand. “Do you pray?”

 

Brienne looked up the altar, following Myrcella’s gaze. “Not much, no. Less than I should.” She thought back through her life and knew she could count the number of her prayers, the ones said of her own volition and without the prodding of Septa Roelle, on two hands. More than half of them were said in desperation for her life, or Jaime’s. “And not since the Wall, my lady.”

 

“What did you pray for?” Myrcella tipped her white candle, lighting another one, indicating another prayer to then gods. “I pray for Tristan, Uncle Tyrion and Uncle Jaime.” She reached her hand out and lit another candle. Brienne saw that the altar was full of them and she wondered if Myrcella lit them all. “And I pray for Tommen, and you. Sometimes,” the girl’s voice hushed and she set down her own candle. “I pray for father, Joffrey and mother.” Myrcella turned her head back to Brienne, her green eyes looking muddy in the multi-colored glow of the sept. Brienne’s attention was wrenched from Myrcella by a bit of wax dripping from her candle and burning her hand. She hissed and Myrcella giggled softly, reminding her of Jaime. “What did you pray for?”

 

Brienne shook off the pain and leaned forward, lighting only one candle before replacing her own. “I prayed for spring,” she said, remembering the seemingly endless dark and the cold and the ice. It made her guilty to think of how little she thought of Tarth or anyone else but her and Jaime in that endless night. 

 

“And what of now?” The princess tucked a curl of thick blonde hair behind what remained of her ear, unthinkingly exposing her scar and the missing chunk of flesh she so graciously hid whilst in court. Brienne ached for the girl. Brienne had never been beautiful, so it wasn’t so great a loss when Biter savaged her. Myrcella was though, beautiful and golden like her parents, and her injury struck Brienne as painfully unfair. 

 

“A _long_ spring, and just now, I prayed for you, Princess Myrcella.” The girl smiled and stood, offering a hand to Brienne, who brushed off the polite offer of assistance. “I have a favor to ask you, if you might spare the rest of your morning?” Myrcella nodded eagerly, agreeing and following Brienne to her bedchamber. She didn’t leave Brienne’s company until late in the afternoon, smiling and skipping all the way to the Queen’s Ballroom. She had a list of things to acquire in her pale hands and note, for Podrick to come and assist her, to give to the first servant she saw on her way. 

 

Things were in motion, and Brienne’s plan was set. All she needed was to find Jaime. She had been avoiding him only days ago and he seemed to appear at every turn, causing her to change path or dip into some deep alcove to avoid detection. Now he was ghost, impossible to find. It seemed no one knew his whereabouts, nor were they concerned for him. Finally Brienne managed to locate a knight, who had squired for Jaime before the Long Night, whom he always called Peck. She hastily scribbled a note to Jaime and ordered Ser Josmyn to be its messenger. Brienne liked the knight, somewhat more than she liked most knights. He was always kind, light-hearted, and a good squire. He even got on well with Pod, which was a blessing considering how much time they were forced to spend together. She had even been present for his knighthood, watching him bend the knee before Jaime as the squire Peck and rise up as Ser Josmyn Peckledon. Once the note was off Brienne had little left to accomplish but to wait. She remained in her bedchamber for a long time, thinking and thinking over her plan and what she would say when he arrived. She wasn’t sure what Jaime’s reaction would be to her decision. She hoped he would understand her actions, see her reason’s for behaving the ways she had.

 

When it was nearing supper time Brienne dressed carefully in the clothes Myrcella had helped her to pick out. The rose-dyed doeskin breeches were soft and buttery against her skin as she slid them on. They fit well on her hips and were tucked easily into the high leather boots Jaime had given to her. She buckled the clasps of the boots gently, not wanting to dent the metal. Her tunic was delicate and thin, a cream-colored silk garment with silvery-blue stitching along the collar and sleeves that she had acquired in Tarth. Her father’s seamstress made it for her during her stay at Evenfall with Jaime. She tucked it in to her breeches carefully, and under Myrcella’s advisement, left the collar unlaced, exposing her lion head pendent. Finally she pulled back her hair. It was not long, but not so short that she couldn’t manage to fit the comb in, holding her brittle strands in a bun against the base of her neck. In her mind she ran over everything she had accomplished. The letters were on the table, the meal was set, she was clean and clothed, and the note had been delivered. 

 

_Knock. Knock._

 

Brienne jumped, nearly dropping the looking glass in her hands, at the banging on her door. “My lady, for your supper,” said a tiny girl, no more than one and ten. She was followed by two other serving girls as she bustled into the room and immediately set to arranging plates on the small cloth-covered table and filling the wine glasses. They put down their parcels and left a set of covered dishes beside the plates of steaming pike and dark vegetation. “For later,” one of them indicated before leaving in the same rush that they came in with. Brienne paced next to the full table, finding nothing wrong with the meal, but still could not calm herself. She wiped her hands against her breeches once more and let out a nervous breath. _“For Tarth,”_ she whispered to herself, _“you must do this for Tarth.”_

 

Standing abruptly she strode to the door and exited her stuffy bedchamber, she needed fresh air. The sun was nearly setting in the sky as she paced along Traitor’s Walk. There were no heads on spikes anymore. King Tommen did not favor the practice and the Hand approved of the King’s views. Instead there was nothing but stone and a blood red sun sinking into the purple-blue of the horizon. She was doing the right thing, she was sure of it. No matter how strange it seemed, no matter how her father might react. She was doing the right thing. Brienne watched as the sun sank beneath the horizon before returning inside. She hoped Jaime would not be too long in coming, his food might grow cold.

 

When she reached the corridor where her chamber sat, Brienne was surprised to see candlelight spilling from her open doorway. She sped up to reach her bedchamber, anxious for her task to be done with. The sight that greeted her was unexpected. Jaime was standing at her window, looking out at the same dusky horizon she had been watching. He turned when she entered the room. 

 

“Ser Jaime, I apologize, I-” He held up a hand, shaking his head.

 

“Can we dispense with the formalities, Brienne? I’m an old man, and I’m tired.” She could feel her brow knit in confusion. Jaime had now twice called himself old in her hearing and it was something she could not abide. 

 

“Ser, you are not _old_.” He raised an eyebrow at her and sighed with exaggeration. “Jaime,” she amended in a tone that she hoped conveyed her irritation, “you fight better than most men in the yard and have more stamina than men half your age.” 

 

Jaime sneered at her compliment. “Yet not so much as to keep up with you, it seems.” She frowned at him and he lifted his left hand up, a piece or parchment clutched in his palm. “Is this why you asked me here this evening, to ask my advice on your letter? I think it is poorly done, to be honest. You are glib and unfeeling. If your Ser Fawnton receives this letter he is bound to rescind his offer from wounded pride.” 

 

“Jaime, you misunderstand.” She stepped forward but he halted her in his tracks with a glower.

 

“Did you think that a bit of fish and some cream would satisfy me? That I might forget how I feel about you? That I might pretend not to know that you are to spend your days withering in the light of the Seven, under the thumb of a man who is so far below you? Or that you will spend your nights beside him, beneath him?” He angrily ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at it in his agitation. 

 

“Ser Jaime,” she started again but he moved forward so quickly and with such agitation it was a wonder that he ever considered himself hoary. 

 

“If this is what you want, so be it. You’re an idiot and I cannot stop you, but I can beg you.” He grabbed her upper arm with his left hand in a strong grip and, with the stump of his right wrist at her waist, tugged her to him. She could feel the heat emanating from his skin like wildfire through the silk of her tunic and it made her flush. “If you do not marry me, then do not marry but for love.”

 

“I do marry for love,” Brienne said, rolling her eyes and frowning deeply, holding back her fury and the pain in her heart at his obvious distress. He looked at her bewildered.

 

“You could scarce remember Fawnton Gower, you cannot love him.” She saw the same pain in her heart reflected back at her in the green of his eyes. She bit her lip and scrunched her nose, trying to find the courage she’d had in battle. 

 

“I don’t love Fawnton Gower, I-I-” her voice stuck in her throat but she managed to croak out the rest in a rush of breath, “I love you, ser.” He released her, dropping both of his arms to his sides, but he did not move away. 

 

“What did you say?” He searched her face and she felt herself grow impossibly hot under his gaze, but she met his eyes all the same. He had never let her down. He had fought with her, and beside her. He had killed for her, and risked his life for hers. She remembered every blow he struck against her, from the slice he’d cut into her upper thigh during their first bout, to the blow he’d landed on her shoulder only days before. 

 

“I love you,” she said, her voice gathering strength. “I-I accept your offer, ser.” When he only stared at her, Brienne bit her lip and let her gaze drop to the beautiful boots she wore. She let her stare wander over the red leather and the black laces, the shining gold clasps sparkling in the candlelight. “If you’ll still have me…”

 

He never replied. Instead she felt his hand, warm and calloused, tuck itself underneath her chin. He easily lifted her gaze back to his own. Stepping into her slowly, and with more intent than he’d had before, he tucked his stump back against her waist and brought his lips to hers. His mouth was warm and dry against hers, and she froze as he pressed into her. He was insistent in this as he was in the yard, and when he moved his lips to let his tongue glide across the seam of her mouth, she allowed him in. Moaning he slid his stump further around her waist, resting in the center of her back and pulling her forward, anchoring her to him. Brienne let her nervous fingers wind their way up his chest and inch anxiously over his shoulders to tangle in his hair. She felt a nervous heat pooling in her stomach and sliding lower still. His left hand snaked along her neck, fisting her hair, and guided her against his mouth the same way his right arm was guiding her against his body. She couldn’t help the shivering thrill that ran through her as he pushed his hips against hers. It was the same thrill she’d felt on the Wall when he’d let his fingers tickle across the belt of her breeches. He’d never travelled anywhere wholly improper, but he had ventured close enough. 

 

Losing herself momentarily in the disorienting bliss that was building up inside of her, Brienne allowed him to push her to the bed. She forgot the dinner she’d spent hours planning as she lay back, released only for an instant before he was crawling cat-like over her. With a growl Jaime attacked her throat in an onslaught of pleasure and pain, his lips and teeth alternating biting and licking against the sensitive and exposed skin of her collarbone. Unconsciously Brienne widened her legs, her body taking over when she no longer knew what to do. Jaime slid between her thighs easily and thrust against her. Brienne cried out quietly, writhing at the exquisitely unfamiliar feeling before it was abruptly removed and she was cold. Brienne opened her eyes and met Jaime’s. He was kneeling above her, his eyes glazed and his breathing labored. 

 

“The letter,” he said panting, “if you did not intend to send it, why did you write it?”

 

Brienne’s mind swam. _What?_ She tried to regain her composure but it took her several long moments to answer him. “There were two letters, one accepting the proposal and one rejecting it. I sent the rejection this last night. I just thought,” She sighed, taking a steadying breath. “I thought he deserved a fair chance.” Her heart was racing in her breast and she switched to breathing through her nose in an attempt to slow her pulse. 

 

“And did Ser Fawnton he get one?” Jaime’s smirk was a knowing one, and although she wanted to smack it off his face, she felt it unfair to steal from him this victory. 

 

“No,” she replied, returning his grin as he descended upon her once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more left! I hope everyone is still reading and enjoying this! As always I love your kudos, questions, comments, criticism and every other thing ya'll do! Thank you!


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and smut and wedding stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the last chapter of _Affiancing_! Or, the epilogue, rather. I hope everyone enjoyed it! I certainly enjoyed writing it! This was all done in thanks to my beta _valyriansteel_ who works tirelessly on _Valonqar_ for me. Thank you! And to _Snowfright_ who beta'd this story and always had the most wonderful edits and encouraging things to say, THANK YOU! TO everyone who has read, reviewed, or left kudos. You are all amazing, thank you for even looking at this little story. 
> 
> Now, I am just going to leave this here and go read all of _YOUR_ stories because I have been too busy to be on the site and it is killing me how many things I want to read!!!

Brienne smoothed down her skirts in irritation. Her nerves were getting the better of her. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life, but Brienne couldn’t seem to relax enough to enjoy it. She paced. She fidgeted. She waited as she was pulled and prodded from head to toe. She clicked her tongue and bit her lip and still it was not time yet. Today she would become Brienne of Tarth, Lady of the Rock and wife to Jaime Lannister, Warden of the West. She should be brimming with joy and pride but instead she was terrified. Her father had insisted that if they were to live at the Rock, they should be married at Evenfall Hall. She had begged and pleaded with Jaime at first that there be no wedding, and he had agreed for her sake, yet at hearing the news her father was disappointed. She could read it easily between the lines of his congratulations. For every word he wrote in blessing, there were two lamenting that the people of Tarth would not see the wedding they had always hoped for. He wrote line after line to his daughter of the fallen morale of the smallfolk, of the battered and beaten island. He had hoped to have a festival in her honor, to give them something to celebrate at the start of the spring, an auspicious event. In the end, she had relented. That was how she found herself wiping her sweaty palms on the velvet cushions belonging to the couch of her bedchamber and wishing Sansa would return soon to take her to the sept. 

The Queen in the North had made a special trip to Evenfall Hall with a large retinue for Brienne’s wedding. The smallfolk of Tarth were beside themselves trying to find accommodations and provisions fit for both King Tommen and for Queen Sansa. Tarth, being relatively small and innocuous, had never hosted one royal party, let alone two. Though it was fitting being that her soon-to-be Lord Husband was the father of the King in the South. Truthfully, she was happy. The large parties attending the wedding were good for trade and there wasn’t an inn on the small island, nor on the mainland for that matter, that wasn’t booked full. The butchers, bakers, farmers, and even the scant few brothels, were full to bursting with patrons. Unfortunately it was those patrons making Brienne so nervous. Just the idea of all those eyes on her, watching her every move, laughing if she stumbled or stuttered, made her heart race beneath her breast. Perhaps they would laugh even without provocation, finding the mere idea of her being wedded and bedded by a man so much more beautiful than she to be humorous in itself. The thought of her bedding caused her heart to beat even harder, flooding her face with hot blood and sending waves of nervous energy into her limbs. 

On the night she had accepted his proposal Jaime had pulled her against him and covered her lips with his own. He had branded her with searing kisses on her lips, neck, cheek and collarbone. He had traced the shell of her ear with his tongue and he had fondled her with grasping fingers and strong arms. Her maidenhead, however, remained intact. He refused to take her dishonorably, as he put it. On the Wall, he’d said, Jaime had thought he would die or if he lived be returned into the service of the Kingsguard. He had been a man whose tomorrow was not guaranteed, and it had made him bold. After the disbandment of the Kingsguard, and his survival of the Long Night, he knew that he had time to wait. He could savor it, take his time, and allow her to enter the sept of her wedding day still a maid. That did not mean, as he was so very willing to prove to her time and again, that he did not want her. He reveled in trailing his hands against her thighs during meals with his family or their friends. Ser Jaime delighted in pressing stolen kisses to her wide mouth when she least expected them. He cornered her in corridors, the armory, in alcoves behind tapestries and in the loft above the stables. He was like a boy in the throes of his first blushing affections. Jaime Lannister was insatiable. Brienne was constantly blushing from either embarrassment or arousal, or both, and only when she hid in the Maidenvault with Princess Myrcella did she find respite. 

The princess was due to wed soon as well, Jaime and Brienne would be travelling to Casterly Rock after their own wedding only to begin a journey to Dorne in less than a fortnight to see his daughter become the wife of Trystane Martell. Brienne had no desire to be a mother to Myrcella, as Jaime had hardly been a father, but she cared deeply for the girl, as he did, and was overjoyed at her insistence that they both attend. She was with Sansa presently, Brienne was sure, gushing over something. Myrcella admired Sansa a great deal, and had confided in her how horrible she’d felt during Sansa’s captivity in King’s Landing. How powerless she had been. Her uncle Tyrion, she’d said, took great pains to make Myrcella feel powerless no more since Tommen’s ascent to the Iron Throne. She had hoped that Sansa and her uncle Tyrion might be reunited after the Long Night, but neither was inclined to do so, and they had their marriage annulled at the first available opportunity; although neither had remarried. 

Brienne twisted one of the silk hangings on the canopy of her bed, _the_ bed. This would be her marriage bed. She eyed it wearily, standing suddenly, feeling wholly uncomfortable on the down cushions and silky sheets. The coverings were cloth of gold and blue silk. Her father had insisted she have at least a few days away from the showy crimson of House Lannister. She would be bathed in the color soon enough, he’d told her. He was right. She’d seen the cloak that was to be put on her back. It was crimson velvet, thickly piled, with thread of gold woven around the edges. A beautiful golden lion rampant was regally prancing on the back and the inside was lined with the same gold silk. The lion from the back matched the large gold lion-head shaped clasp that would buckle at her throat. It was not the maiden cloak Cersei wore, nor the one given to Margaery by Joffrey Baratheon or Sansa Stark by Tyrion. It was a new cloak, commissioned by Jaime specifically for her.

Pacing, and looking back at the bed periodically, Brienne stared at her maiden cloak laid out for her to don when the time came. It was a deep blue, the color of the seas around her island, with tiny glass shapes inlaid like stars around the suns and moons of her house. The cloak was lined like the Lannister cloak, only it was with a rose red silk instead of gold. Her maiden cloak was much older than the Lannister one, passed down from bride to bride beyond memory. She was surprised at the length of it when her father had bestowed it to her, wrapping it around her shoulders and letting it graze against the ground as she walked. House Tarth, apparently, had always grown tall girls. With a shuddering breath Brienne lifted her cloak from the bed and laid it about her shoulders. She turned to see herself in the mirror, contemplating her reflection. She could _almost_ be beautiful….almost. She bit her lip. That did not matter, Jaime had told her that it didn’t…and yet still she felt her stomach knot itself up beneath her muscle and skin. Mayhaps on any other day she would not dwell on her face, or her thick shoulders, the corded muscles in her legs, but today was her wedding day and she despaired. _They will laugh at him, forced to stand beside me_.

She swung away from the mirror, striding across the room and yanking the door open to get some fresh air, only to run smack into the subject of her painful thoughts. Jaime had his good hand raised, as if to knock on her bedchamber door. Instead he caught her in his arms, halting her progress. “Ho, ho, wench, where are you going in such a hurry?” Brienne’s eyes widened when he pushed her back into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. 

“Ser Jaime, you’re not supposed to be here!” Her exclamation was louder than she intended, though she couldn’t help her surprise at the situation. Her stomach clenched again when he stepped back from her and she got a good look at him. He lifted one long finger to his lips to shush her. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said, smiling. His long blond hair seemed to glow in the afternoon sun glinting through the window. He was in Lannister red, of course, from toes to chin. He was in red boots that near matched the ones he’d given to her, tan breeches with crimson piping, a red leather jerkin, with embroidered lions over each breast, and a black tunic underneath. Jaime had his sword strapped to his waist, not Oathkeeper, for that was hers, but another. He was even wearing his golden hand, with which he pulled her to him, hooking it around her waist. He used his good hand to trace along her neck, leaving goose-bumps in its wake. “You look lovely, my lady.”

“I do not.” She looked down at herself then back to him.

“It is true. I do think prefer you in breeches, actually,” he brushed a stray hair from her face and placing his lips against her ear. “Or out of them.” She shivered. He leaned back, leering at her and causing all the blood to rush to her face and clash with her hair. 

“Jaime,” she whispered, placing her hands on his chest to ease him further way. 

“Wench,” he replied, pressing against her palms and letting his hand drift across her hips and encircling her. He flattened his palm across her backside and squeezed suggestively, sliding his hips against her in a rolling rhythm. She knew this dance, he had been teaching her, and although she didn’t know all the steps, she was keeping up with him more often than not. Widening her stance, Brienne craned her neck back, allowing him access to her neck. Jaime didn’t need to bend forward, as he might have with a shorter woman, he merely angled his head and dragged his teeth across her flushed skin. She clutched ineffectually at his red jerkin, digging her nails into the supple leather as she moved her hips against his. Jaime tightened his hold on her waist, keeping her body fit against him like two pieces of a puzzle, and growled as he pressed against her. He was hard in his breeches and she could feel his lengthening manhood through the calfskin and silk, insistent against her. He nuzzled her neck a final time before dipping his head down and pressing his mouth open to the skin just over her bodice. Brienne felt her chest heave and tighten under his ministrations and she brought her hands down to his shoulders, gently pushing him away. 

This was the part of the dance where he would back away from her, as gracefully as he could, with a smile on his face and a palm pushing agitatedly against the bulge in his breeches. He would leave her then, warm and flushed and willing, because he respected her honor. She would wish for a moment that he didn’t honor her half so much, so that she might have learned the rest of the dance he already knew so well. That would all change tonight, but for now they would wait. He did back away gracefully, as she knew he would, and he did smile at her. He even palmed himself roughly, trying to push down the hardness that was so evident, but he did not rush to leave as he normally would. She had asked him once why he felt the need to flee from her touch and he told her if he could not take _her_ in hand, than he must take himself in hand. She had blushed the whole day after. Now he remained, and met her eyes sympathetically. “Are you nervous, my lady?”

“I shouldn’t be, but I am.” She blushed at her admitted nervousness, feeling silly for fearing her wedding more than she feared the Whitewalkers. She toed the ground in her delicate blue slippers and stared at her overlarge feet, feeling all the more ungainly and insipid. “All of those people, I keep thinking about them. And the bedding, and,” she groaned looking down at her gown and her large, white silk slipper clad feet. Her voice was soft and tortured, but it didn’t need to be loud because he was there and so close.

“None of that matter, they don’t matter. You and I, we matter,” he said, lifting her face to meet his. “I want you. I would want you with them, or without them, in a sept or in a godswood, on the Wall or at the Rock. I want you, Brienne.” She licked her lips and let her teeth tug her bottom lip into her mouth nervously. 

“Jaime?” She tried to read his eyes but there was naught there but black desire, swallowing the lily-pad green. He let his hand slide back into her hair and he gripped her face fiercely, letting his thumb slide over cheekbone and ravaged flesh. She hesitated in the taught stillness, waiting to see what he would do.

“Seven hells, I want you now,” he exploded into movement, crashing into her with a force that knocked her off balance. His lips and teeth and tongue attacking hers with ferocity Brienne had never experienced in their kisses before. His assault on her rivaled their first kiss, and the effect it had on Brienne was the same. She fell back beneath the onslaught, landing on what was to be their marriage bed, her maiden’s cloak getting tangled under her and nearly choking her as Jaime climbed above her. He tore at the clasp until it released her neck, and then he dove at the patch of skin it had pinched. His hands, the golden one and the flesh, roamed over her body greedily, pawing and squeezing at her scant curves and soft, untouched areas. “I want you, I want you, I want you,” he kept whispering, between licks and kisses. Tugging her skirts up he plunged his hand between her legs, tearing away the smallclothes she’d worn for the occasion. They were a fine myrish lace, cream in color, and more delicate than anything she owned. He ripped them like parchment, exposing her heated flesh to the silk of her skirts and his warm, wandering fingers. Brienne hissed when the tip of his forefinger slid past her slick entrance and curled within her, her body responding to him in ways she only half understood. 

Jaime moaned when she lifted her hips, crushing his hand between them roughly. “Stop me now,” he muttered into her hair. “Stop me if you want to be a maid before the septon.” Brienne’s mind screamed for her to comply, to push him away. But her pulse, her heart, begged her to hold him tighter. Her fingers refused to untangle from his hair and her lips only opened to allow him access, not to speak any word to halt him. “Wench, please,” he begged against her lips, “stop me now, if that is your intent.” 

Brienne sighed and hissed beneath his kisses but she did not speak. Instead she wound her long legs around his torso, anchoring him to her. His short beard scrubbed against her face and neck, scraping and pulling at her skin in the most painful and exquisite way. “Please, ser,” she started, her voice little more than a breath ruffling his hair.

“Call me by my name, call me Jaime,” he said into the soft flesh of her neck, and so she did. Over and over and over again, his name echoing off the stone walls and mingling with the groans and sighs coming from his own mouth, until he bunched up her skirts at her waist and began frantically pulling at the laces of his breeches with his left hand. He stilled only long enough to allow her to untie the knots there when he couldn’t, her fingers trembling. His left hand cupped her face as she worked, brushing back her hair and rubbing soothing circles on her skin with his thumb. When she managed to undo his laces she let her hands drop to her sides, unsure of herself suddenly. Her breast heaved as she pulled in breath after shuddering breath, waiting for what, she didn’t know. Jaime leaned her back, his hand remaining behind her neck, easing her descent into the marriage bed. “You’re sure?” His green eyes met her blue ones, wide open and guileless. He wanted her. She could see it there is his face, as plain as day. She knew it by the quiver in his touch, the heat in his hand, the press of his chest. She knew it by the gentle tone of his words, by his honor. 

“I am.” 

Jaime nodded once, before lowering himself onto her. Brienne reached up to grip his shoulder as he eased his weight onto the elbow he placed beside her head, and widened her legs to accommodate him. She had expected pain, sharp and stinging, but instead she felt a slow discomfort as he pushed past her body’s barriers. It was Jaime’s turn to hiss in her ear as he filled her. The feeling was everything and nothing she expected. Her back arched against him, pressing her small silk-covered breasts against the leather of his jerkin, when on his second thrust he reached a point inside her that lit a fire behind her eyes. Brienne saw gold and white, clenching her eyes shut against the agonizing bliss. Jaime’s golden hand bit sharp and cold against her bare waist as he relentlessly fell into her again and again. Gasping and clutching wordlessly she met him, rising when he fell, falling when he rose. They moved like tides lapping at the shore, breaking against each other in a maelstrom. 

The knot in her belly, the squirming heat that gnawed at her, began to uncoil in a burst of pleasure. Brienne made a noise somewhere between a grunt and scream as her climax built and washed over her from her head to her grasping fingers to her curling toes. She tightened her grip at his waist and writhed below him, her body responding still more with every thrust until he was grunting his pleasure into her ear and the silk of the cloak discarded beneath her. He crushed his lips to hers sloppily, once more, before rolling away and collapsing beside her. He was lying so that he could slip his left hand back beneath her head, just leaving it there stroking her hair. “Jaime, I-” She turned her head and he turned his, smiling at her softly, his cheeks red and his eyes blinking slowly at her. “Thank you.”

He sat up and then pushed himself off the bed, his breeches halfway down his hips and his neck red with scratch marks she didn’t remember leaving. “The pleasure was mine, my lady.” He reached out his good hand to help her up, and when she was stood he gently flattened the back of her hair, running his fingers through the tangles he’d made there. She gently tucked his member back into his breeches and laced them up while he righted her skirt, shaking out the creases. Then he lifted her maiden cloak from the bed, shaking it out, and placed it over her shoulders and letting his fingers drag against her skin when he clasped it at the base of her neck. “I had intended to come to you only to see that you were in need of nothing, and to make sure you hadn’t jumped from your window and swam across the narrow sea to escape this.” 

“I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t leave you.” She stuttered in her rush to get the words out and Jaime just laughed. 

“I know, wench. It was a jape, a poor one. Speaking of japes, I believe my little brother has taken the liberty of writing to Ser Fawnton and inviting him to our wedding. I’m sorry, he’s only just told me. Does that bother you?” Brienne smoothed her hands against her dress again before cocking her head and meeting Jaime’s inquisitive gaze.

“No, I was aware. Why should that bother me?” 

“Is that so? I thought you might feel, guilty, perhaps, having rejected his advances. Oh, I don’t know, you’re the honorable one, not me. You never did tell me, what did you say to him? In your letter, I mean. If your pathetic attempt at an acceptance was anything to go by it’s a wonder the lad didn’t throw himself from a tower wall at your rejection.” Jaime’s grin made her hit him in the arm forcefully, grinning back as she did. 

“I didn’t write it, your brother did,” she replied after. She tugged at her dress, lamenting briefly the loss of her delicate small clothes when she felt the slow trickle beginning at the apex of her legs and creeping down her thigh.

“Tyrion? When did he-?”

“He came to speak with me, when he brought your mother’s comb, and left it for on the table in my bedchamber. I think, I think he knew I couldn’t marry Ser Fawnton. But I did not want to hurt the lad, being rejected by the likes of me…” She trailed of, ducking her face slightly. Jaime merely lifted her chin and kissed the corner of her mouth gently. 

“I think Tyrion knew even before you received Ser Fawnton’s proposal.” Jaime lifted the lion head pendent from her neck and held it in his hand, careful not to pull the chain too roughly. “Too smart by half, my brother, always has been. Speaking of Tyrion, I suspect he is holding off our guests, or else someone would have rudely interrupted us by now. Shall we, my lady?” She couldn’t help but feel anxious, though the fear was tempered now by his words, whispered against her skin; _I want you, I want you, I want you._ He wanted her, as she wanted him, and now they would have each other until the end of their days. 

“Yes, I think so.” Brienne bit her lip and took his hand, allowing him to lead her to the door and out into the corridor that would lead to the beginning of the rest of her life. When they entered the sept she had a moment to examine the faces before her. Brienne first saw her father, tall and resplendent in full armor, befitting of the Evenstar. She saw Sansa, radiant in grey and black, her auburn hair shining in the sunlight through the high windows. Behind her stood the imposing figure of Sandor Clegane, dressed in his Stark armor. She saw the King of the other side of the isle, he was almost one and ten years old but he was still round and sweet looking. He was clutching a basket in his arms, a gift meant for her and Jaime no doubt. A small kitten was peeking over the top and out at the festivities. When the time came for him to properly rule, in his own right, she thought he would make a good King. There were numerous faces she didn’t recognize as well, and she knew Fawnton Gower to be among them. She felt sorry for him. Not because she had rejected him, but that he hadn’t yet found what she had. That he might never find it. Brienne knew many people didn’t, and those who did were few and far between. There love was the unlikely stuff of legend, of myth and song. Brienne clenched her eyes shut, taking a deep breath to steady herself, before opening them and letting Jaime lead her to the septon of Evenfall Hall. She allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of her mouth when she passed King Tommen and his Hand, Tyrion was smirking like a cat who got the cream. She nodded to him in thanks, it was just a small movement but he saw it and nodded back. 

Fawnton Gower was there, as a matter of fact. He was at the back of the sept, near the wall, smiling at a girl near his age. A fierce daughter of the Stormlands, he judged by her dress, with black hair and light blue eyes. In his hand was clutched his invitation to the wedding of Ser Jaime Lannister and the Lady Brienne of Tarth, he was honored to have been the first invited to the wedding of the King’s uncle, his invitation read:

_Good Ser Fawnton,_

_I hope this letter reaches you in good health. It has come to my attention, thanks to a particularly overzealous maester (forgive him, he is young) that you have written to a member of King Tommen’s court in proposal of marriage. While I am sure your affection is genuine, and the match would be advantageous to both you and the Lady Brienne, I am writing in her stead to decline your offer. I have not shown her the letter as it would pain her, I think, to write to you herself. She is a gentlewoman at heart. However, she is presently unable to accept your invitation in that she is already betrothed to my brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. This betrothal has stood, quietly at their behest, since the dissolution of King Tommen’s Kingsguard. It shall be a spring wedding, not more than four turns of the moon hence. As you wrote in your letter that you fought valiantly beside her during the Long Night, you must already be aware of their steadfast affections, and would not expect their vows to be broken in favor of another suitor. I am, however, very sure that they would be delighted at your attending their nuptials, if you would be so kind. The details shall be released in due time, and will include many Lords and Ladies, but you are the first to receive a formal invitation. All that will be required of you is that you bring this letter to be admitted. I ask only that you keep your guest list to four, including yourself, and that this information remains between you and I for the time being. The lady in question and my brother do so hate to be the center of gossip, I am sure you understand._

_Regards,  
Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! I hope you had a good time and I am sure I shall see all of you around here, or on the Tumblr. ;) Thank you for reading! 
> 
> <3 H3L

**Author's Note:**

> As always your questions, comments, concerns and criticism, as well as your kudos, are welcome and most appreciated.


End file.
